


I want to give you green and golden fields

by MissFlitworth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22683457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth
Summary: Aziraphale isn't feeling great so Crowley is nice, Aziraphale has a bookclub in his bookshopit's human au
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	I want to give you green and golden fields

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT NOTE: Aziraphale has his period

Aziraphale runs a bookclub out of his shop, a rag-tag group who started out reading modern fiction. It has gradually morphed into a trawl through literary history for queer stories, which has made Aziraphale happy. He’s shifted from collecting old bibles and arcana to chasing down endless pamphlets and scraps and pages, following footnotes and brief mentions and diary entries. More accurately, he just collects both now. Crowley came across a prophecy book in Paris, in an old French dialect, and that had made Aziraphale pink with happiness still. Crowley likes making Aziraphale flustered with happiness. 

Most of the time Crowley has nothing to do with the bookclub, maintaining that he does not read, but sometimes he’ll wait in the outer shop (closed early for each Occasion, always warm and quite with nice dim corners to nap in), or he’ll come right as the club is set to end and collect Aziraphale. He hangs around because when Aziraphale finds him waiting he always fluffs up and beams at Crowley like he’s done the nicest thing. Today Aziraphale is pale and tired and unhappy because he has his period, so Crowley sprawls on the sofa set up in the back. The bookclub arrives and they perch or curl up in chairs, all of them slightly wary of Crowley but most recognizing him. Crowley sprawls across all the sofa until Aziraphale comes bustling through with a tray of little cakes, a bowl of grapes, a stack of papers under his arm. He shifts enough that Aziraphale can sit beside him. 

“Oh, are you staying? Lovely,” Aziraphale says, cheeks pinking a little. Crowley nods, shrugs. “This is Crowley, everyone. He hasn’t read  _ The Life and Death of Mary Frith _ , or the pamphlet about Mr George Hamilton, but he took me to see  _ The Roaring Girl  _ at Stratford.” 

Aziraphale beams around at his bookclub, speaking the title and place-name with relish, just an edge of smugness in his voice. Crowley grabs the texts for this week off the coffee table and flicks through as Aziraphale sets things in motion, going around seeing what people thought of things. Aziraphale’s quieter than usual and shifts uncomfortably, arm around his middle. Crowley gets up and goes to make tea, muttering something wordless as an excuse. Aziraphale blinks up at him as he leaves and Crowley gives his shoulder a light squeeze to reassure him he’s coming back. He leans against the counter in the kitchenette, listening to … her name might be Anna? But, no, something odder. She switches to Spanish absently now and then. The kettle’s old and slow, and it always flicks itself off twice before boiling. Crowley tried to buy Aziraphale a new one but Aziraphale gets attached to objects and had got anxious about throwing it out, so it’s still here. It wheezes when it boils. 

When Crowley returns to the warm back room with the tea Aziraphale brightens. He cradles the mug in his hands as if it's the most thoughtful gift in the world. Crowley flops back into his place on the sofa, Anna… Anita? pausing in her explanation of why transgender narratives and history are important to Early Modern theatre, hands in the air. Aziraphale nods to her and she goes on, hands describing things as she goes. Aziraphale listens and nods again, then shifts a little closer to Crowley when the discussion draws attention away from them. 

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says, softly, ducked over his tea to hide a slight blush. 

“Mm,” crowley says, not wanting to draw attention to his doing nice things. Aziraphale takes a sip and makes a pleased sound, eyes a little wide.Crowley has to fight a smile. “I added honey and ginger.”

Aziraphale finally joins in the conversation. He’s still sitting as if he’s uncomfortable, but the tea seems to help and he’s getting drawn into the subject at hand, leaning forward to shuffle through the papers and books relating to their conversation that he’s brought out. An hour passes comfortably, Crowley entertaining himself by playing a game on his phone and scrolling social media until Aziraphale starts twisting himself subtly into odd shapes. He’s trying to stretch out his back, Crowley knows, trying to shift the aches and twinges of pain. Crowley keeps his gaze on his phone and reaches over, rubbing warmth into the sore places, pushing his thumb against muscles he knows are tight and hurting. Aziraphale turns to give him a very warm smile, relaxing slightly and carrying on his conversation about Astronomy with… fuck. What is her name anyway? She’s been coming to this group for years, Crowley should know her name. He doesn’t manage to call it to mind before Aziraphale starts wrapping things up. 

“So we’re not meeting next month, as so many of us are away or unable to make the date, but do put the following month into your diaries. We’ll be staying in the Early Modern period, I’ve scanned the pamphlets I’ve found and uploaded them to the group page,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley clears his throat, still intent on his screen, but Aziraphale doesn’t correct himself, just keeps on blithely talking, taking credit for the website Crowley built for the group and for scanning everything. Ignoring the fact that  _ his  _ scans were so wonky and the pages all different orientations and he’d burst into tears, curls all disarrayed, and Crowley had found him and sorted it all out. Crowley clears his throat again and Aziraphale laughs, light and happy and completely without intent to tell the truth. Everyone starts filing out, clumping together to continue conversations. Aziraphale follows to let them out the front and lock up behind them. Crowley trails him as far as the doorway through to the back, leaning, arms crossed, watching until everyone’s gone and Aziraphale pulls the blinds down and starts weaving his way through the books stacked haphazardly. 

“How’re you feeling?” Crowley asks, deciding to let the whole website thing go. They all know Aziraphale didn’t do it, no one can be acquaintances with Aziraphale without knowing he’s got a hate-hate relationship going with technology and is determined to live in the 18th century. He has a  _ pocket watch _ . You  _ wind it up _ to make it go. It’s  _ adorable _ . 

“The tea helped, and the back rub, thank you for being so kind,” Aziraphale says, coming around the counter right into Crowley’s space, insinuating himself into Crowley’s arms and leaning into him, tipping his head back to look up at him. “You’re-”

“Shut up,” Crowley says, before Aziraphale can get out whatever soppy thing he’s thinking. Aziraphale just smiles wider and pushes up to kiss Crowley’s cheek. “C’mon, I’m so bored, let’s go to mine I have a better TV.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, in that way of his, looking up at the ceiling. 

“Have you thrown yours away again?” Crowley asks, sighing. “How is it that you have had that bloody kettle for nearly three decades but can’t keep a television for more than a month?”

“Kettles have purpose. Televisions just make noise,” Aziraphale says, pretending dignity, as if he doesn’t break into Crowley’s flat regular as clockwork to watch Doctor Who, as if he hasn’t wheedled login details for Crowley’s Netflix and Amazon Prime, as if Crowley’s laptop doesn’t live in Aziraphale’s livingroom nowadays. He has to use his macbook at home. 

“I’ll buy you dinner on the way,” Crowley says, offering Aziraphale his arm. 

“I’ll just turn the lights off and close up,” Aziraphale says, bustling away. 

Crowley perches on the counter to wait, tidying things up, neatening the display of bookmarks some local artist conned Aziraphale into paying too much for. People don’t really buy them, but they are beautiful. Organizing them in their display Crowley gets the nagging suspicion that Aziraphale may be the reason people don’t buy them - he probably likes them too much and discourages it. Crowley can’t help smiling about that, stupidly fond. 

“I’m ready,” Aziraphale says, interrupting, standing waiting. He’s got a coat and scarf on, now, and his hair’s fluffing out of the scarf, and he looks beautiful. Crowley just sits, smiling, taking it all in, until Aziraphale huffs and holds out his arm. 

Crowley likes walking with Aziraphale’s hand tucked into the crook of his arm, close for warmth, telling Crowley about something or other as they walk. A dog he met, maybe, or a book that came in today, or what he had for lunch; something that made him happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is bit of Ardent By Jill McDonough, cus I couldnt think of a title (https://slate.com/culture/2000/09/ardent.html)


End file.
